


The Stars as our Witness

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Are you surprised tho?, Cold War, Crossdressing, Dancing, Fluff, Lots of dancing, M/M, Magic, Revolutionary War, RusAme, There was just so much fluff, UK brothers, War of 1812, i cried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18495649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: They dance like they've done it for countless centuries - an eternity in every move they make.  They dance like they're ageless; like the world spins in tandem with their twirls.  They dance like they're beautiful and breathtaking; like there was nothing more important in the world than being exactly where they were.They danced like there was nothing more precious than each other, and Arthur wondered how long he'd willed himself to miss this.





	The Stars as our Witness

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things to note! This takes place in an AU slightly separate from the normal "A Wrinkle in Crinoline" verse. Mostly since Arthur doesn't find out until post-Cold War about his son's crossdressing and Alfred's relationship with Ivan, whereas in this fic it happens during the Cold War.
> 
> Tulle wasn’t invented until the 19th century, but for some reason, it just fit so well in the description, I had to keep it. So, just imagine they invented it a half-century earlier. 
> 
> Also, Rhys (Wales), Alistair (Scotland), Reilley (Ireland/N.Ireland), and Arthur (England) are the brothers four.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

            It hadn’t been a focused question, truly, perhaps that’s why the answer was so bewildering to them.  Reilley had forgotten to wipe off the divining runes from the windows and walls of the parlor.  All it had taken was one heated argument amongst the brothers four – about the war across the pond, what else? – with their magic reacting on high, and the one stray question shouted at the top of his lungs – _What of Alfred, then?!_

            The world around them had needed no more prompting than that.

            The brothers four are suddenly elsewhere – perhaps even else _when_ – dropped onto the fringes of an empty ballroom they couldn’t recognize.  It’s dark as pitch around them, and they can see only shadows of magnificence as they searched frantically for what had brought them here.

            And then, as one, they stiffened and froze in place, for all the unseen candles in the grand ballroom seem to light themselves all at once.

            A pair of footsteps echo in their ears, then another, each approaching from opposite ends of the now visible ballroom.  They share slightly panicked and wary, sharp-eyed glances, but do not move; they’re stuck in place, silent and observing.  Then, two figures appear – one for each set of footsteps – and they _stare_.

            The first figure they saw, off to their right, was tall – far taller than any of them, they noted.  His – for he was male, that was evident from the way he presented himself – had a crown of silver hair framing a similarly-shaded silver half-mask set atop his pale face.  Violet eyes gleamed out of the moonlit mask, striking and oh so _familiar_ , even if they couldn’t quite place them.  The man is wearing a suit – though in a style they’ve never seen before, with a short suit jacket buttoned neatly near the waistline, exposing a dark vest inked onto the pale gleam of a white shirt, and sharp, crisp pants.  They blink at the man’s appearance, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them.  No, all his attention went to the figure at the other end of the hall.

            The second figure was slighter, shorter – though not short by any measure of the word, and an almost honeyed contrast to his moonlit counterpart.  It was another man, young and beaming with a halo of honey-wheat blond hair framing a tanned face under a golden half-mask.  Blue eyes beamed radiantly at the world about him, fastened onto their violet counterparts in warm delight.  His suit is of a similar design, settled happily on the young man with an easy familiarity.  It was lovely, sleek and dark; the exact same shade of navy that inked in the galaxy around them.

            The hall around them flares, as if the lights grew brighter to welcome the pair.  Arthur hears his brothers gasp, looking up, so he dares a glance, only to lose his breath.

            Above them, the galaxies spin.  It’s like someone’s stolen the ceiling of a gilded ballroom, and pealed back the layers of the sky to reveal nothing but the heavens and eternity that exists around them.  Swirls of iridescent gleaming things and nebulas brighter than anything they’d ever seen darted around the open sky, and they stared as the world around them danced to a tune they couldn’t hear.

            Gleaming gold and silver catch his eye, drawing it away from the masterpiece of a miracle he’d never allow himself to forget. The pair had begun to walk towards each other, their steps precise echoes of each other, until they made it within a few feet of each other.  They bow, then; precise, and formal, but glance up as they do to share secretive smiles that made something stir in the depths of his heart.

            The silver-masked man offers out a gloved hand, palm up, and the gold-masked man beams as he places his hand into the other man’s, allowing himself to be swept up into a waltz.

            They dance.  They dance, and dance, and _dance_ as the galaxies spin above them, as the stars gleam from the tapestries they can suddenly see lining the gilded walls.  They dance and whirl and twist and dip, around and around and around each other until Arthur can hardly tell who is who, for they might look different but they’re so entwined with each other it feels criminal to even try.

            Suddenly, the vision flashes.  The dancing pair remains, twirling around the dance floor, but they’re dressed differently.  The slighter is wearing a dress – a ball gown with tulle fluffing the skirts and a lace overlay that would cost any tailor a fortune to make – with wheat-gold hair burned bronze and wrapped tightly into a braided crown.  The taller of the pair wears a military dress uniform – insignias blurred so the brothers four couldn’t quite make them out – and leads his partner around a suddenly crowded, _familiar_ gilded ballroom.  The scene flashes again, and there they are, still dancing but clothes changed.  They bore simple country clothes, tunics and pants, with careworn cobbled boots that danced a familiar rhythm around a small-town square in the lantern-lit night.  Again, the vision flashes, and this time they’ve been thrown decades, if not centuries into the future – the technology they can see so far advanced from the time they live in – and the world around them seems to slow.

            The pair is dancing again, breathless and laughing, bickering fondly with each other as they twirled around yet another familiar gilded floor, this one crowded with other nations.  They both wore what were, presumably, suits: sleek and snazzy three-piece affairs inked in the darkest of colors.  Leather shoes stepped in tandem, in an unfaltering dance they’d watched the pair weave for what seemed like an eternity.  They’re breathtaking and beautiful as they move together, and for a split-second, it is as if Arthur can see himself at the edge of the crowd in that beautiful, gilded ballroom, watching the two dancers weave a story with seamless motion.

            And then the two smile at each other, and the image is gone.  All that remains is the pair of dancers, dancing around an empty ballroom and weaving strands of moonlight with every step, the stars gleaming from the tapestries in the wall as the galaxies swirled above them.

            Then, the music shifts.  The one with the gold-half mask tilts his head back and laughs – joy filled and warm, like sunshine on clear beaches – and they startle because they _know_ that laugh, that’s Alfred’s laugh, which means this was the answer they were seeking...the answer of Alfred’s future.  And then, as they’re still reeling, the music slows; and the pair stop spinning in their waltz. Instead, they sway, gently, in each other’s arms, smiling as if there was nowhere else in the world they’d rather be.

            Alfred leans up, then, to press a kiss on the other man’s lips; it’s easy, practiced, and loving, and the other man pressed back. And around them, as they kissed, the galaxies twirled and the stars danced and the world moved on...and still, the couple in the center of it all stayed pressed together, swaying with the world’s rhythm, unchanged in their love for each other.

            And then, the vision fades. And the brothers four are back in their parlor at Kirkland Castle, staring numbly at each other in the wake of it.

* * *

“Well…tha’ was….  I dunnae have words for it.”

“Not what we were expecting, no.”

“They were so _hic_ beautiful together,”

“WHO DID THAT BASTARD THINK HE WAS, DOING THAT TO MY BABY?!”

Three voices sighed.

* * *

           It was in Versailles, the first time he’d subconsciously drawn the vision to the forefront of his mind.

            It was a particular occasion – another fête that Francis had thrown in the seat of his monarchy’s power.  All the nations of Europe had been invited, as was usual. However, many had shown up, something altogether strange in this oddly tense time after one of his and Francis’s fights.  The reason, however, was not as bewildering as the occurrence itself.  It was curiosity, of that, Arthur was sure.

            It was 1778, and America had been invited as a sovereign nation to the French gala at Versailles.

            The boy was  _here_ , there was no doubt.  The American delegation skirted the edges of the room when the British had walked in, but they were _there_.  And because it would’ve been terribly offensive for America to have forsaken the visit when France has specifically invited him, he _knew_ the boy was here.  All the same, the fact that Arthur couldn’t find him wasn’t surprising either.  Washington’s spy network would never cease to amaze him – even as it gave him migraines from across the pond – as, somehow, the American delegation had found out that he’d intended on crashing the party, so to speak.

            Alfred was _hiding_.

            It was good politics, he’d admit, to keep Alfred hidden, especially when faced with the grumpy British Empire, but it was also essential.  France may have recognized America as an independent nation and given him sovereign status while in his country, but _no one_ in the world would deny that until the Americans won, the lands were still crown property.  America was still _his_.  They might have a _Declaration of Independence_ to shove in his face, but none of that mattered until it was recognized by the Empire himself.

            And until he recognized America’s independence, he still had the right to drag the boy home with him and lock him a bloody tower until this independence nonsense was sorted out.  Let his son hate him for a decade or two.  He would understand, eventually.

            That was, after all, the reason behind him sending two of his brothers to sneak around the back of Versailles and find where Alfred and the American delegation were staying within the palatial space.  He _knew_ Francis was hiding him here, wouldn’t be able to resist showing off the splendor of his _Versailles_ to the bright-eyed New World colony; that’s why Arthur would take advantage of it.  If Alfred was hidden up in their rooms, and Alistair or Reilley found him…well, it would be a great deal easier to secret him away before anyone could be notified.

            He felt the anticipation spike when he caught sight of said brothers slipping in through one of the many side corridors leading into the ballroom.  A thrum of frustration pulsed through his veins when Alistair caught his eye and shook his head.  His free hand curled into a fist, and Arthur scowled, looking away before anyone noticed.

            His Welsh brother raised a brow at the interaction, eyes tracing the two middle brothers as they faded into the crowed, searching for their quarry.  “I take it they had no luck,” he commented shrewdly, eyes darting to Arthur.

            “None, I suppose,” he growled, and Rhys shook his head.

            “Surely you can sense him?” his brother asked, one pale brow kicking up in inquiry.  Arthur’s scowl grew darker.

            “Only that he’s here,” he growled in frustration, “in this building, but no closer.  He could probably waltz right past me in disguise and I would never know.”

            Rhys frowned at him, contemplative, before a gleam of gold caught their eyes.  They turned in unison, only to see it was the gold gleam of Ivan’s uniform that had caught their attention.  Ivan, who hadn’t seemed to notice them at all, whirled passed them, leading his dancing companion in a fluid waltz.  The young woman’s skirt’s flared as they spun past the two brothers, a layer of tulle and lace coming within an inch of brushing them, before she was whisked away – back into the throng of dancers with her unusual companion.

            Rhys hummed as the pair vanished amongst the hordes of lace, silk, and tulle on the dance floor.  “I’ve not seen Ivan so focused on a dance in some time,” he murmured quietly, eyes contemplative.

            Arthur, who’d dismissed the pair from his mind as soon as they’d disappeared from view, frowned at his brother.

            “Surely it doesn’t matter?” he responded tartly. Here he was, searching for his wayward little brat and his brother was oddly interested with Ivan’s choice in dance partner?

            “Perhaps,” Rhys murmured, but his eyes never left the throng of dancers, honing in on the gleam of gold that had caught his attention in the first place.  His eyes traced the flare of blush-pink and white layered lace-topped tulle, the gleam of candlelight against that woven crown of bronze hair, and the way Ivan smiled at that oddly familiar figure like he was looking at something precious…

            “Honestly, Rhys,” his littlest brother sighed, oblivious to the pieces that began to line up in the elder nation’s mind.

            Arthur idly noticed the pair exchange their bow and curtsey at the end of the waltz and thought nothing of it.  He turned away, eyes seeking Francis holding court amongst his mischievous friends, and missed the way Rhys stiffened as Ivan offered out his hand, palm up, to whirl the young woman into another waltz.

* * *

           It’s decades later, in a different ballroom and a different city, with a different dress and a different disguise.  Rhys’s nephew has a burn on his heart with no tears left to cry, but the Welshman watches the sense of tragedy radiate from a young blond woman that Ivan is spinning around the dance floor, and knows that perhaps he doesn’t need tears to tell the world what had happened.

            He sees blue eyes catch his for a split second, tear-veiled and brimming under the black veiled short cap; watches Ivan hold the young “woman” like she was something precious, and turns away.

            Arthur might be half blind when it came to his son, but Rhys could never say the same.  In this case, however…it might’ve been easier to live with himself if he had been.

* * *

           It’s a century and a half later when Arthur finally sees what his brother had noticed that first night.  They’re having some sort of unity ball, with all the nations of the world and their elite invited to join and mingle.  There are hundreds of people descending upon Arthur’s beloved capital as he opened up castle ballrooms and manors, preparing them to entertain the world’s leaders.  America and Russia had signed a mutual pact to be civil and even nice to each other, despite the Cold War that raged around them, and all the nations of the world crossed their fingers as they prepared to enjoy the first genuine ball they’d had since the world they’d once known had come apart in the trenches of Europe.

            Arthur is hosting, so of course he’s on his feet, greeting all the nations as they walk in with their leaders and their elite. But Alfred is one of the world’s superpowers, and he’s doing his equal share of greeting and politicking, even as his eyes are tired and his words old and practiced.  It’s a tiredness that lingers in the tone of his voice and the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it has Arthur worried.  The stream of incoming guests has thinned, so he’s determined to step away from his duties – one of his brothers can take over, no doubt – and whisk his son away to get something to eat or perhaps dance and relax.

            Only, he doesn’t get that chance.

            The moment he steps away, Ivan appears, just behind Alfred where the boy couldn’t see him.  He taps the teenage superpower on the shoulder, smirking as the other jumps slightly, and does the most unexpected thing that drops the jaws of every watcher present.

            He offers out his hand, palm up, and waits.

            Alfred blinks, equally startled, and almost dazedly takes the hand that he’s been offered before anyone around him could even open their mouth to protest.  Ivan whisks him away to the dance floor with an almost practiced ease that no one else seems to notice.

            They pause there – a pair amongst dozens of others that don’t seem to notice them there – and then they bow.  They come together like puzzle pieces no one had ever seen connect before, but fit seamlessly in a way no one would ever doubt.

            And as the music wove around them, Arthur could finally see.

            They danced like they breathed; something instinctive and beautiful yet unquestionably natural.  It was a dance practiced, each step in place with little need for guidance. They bickered as they danced, smiles twisting their lips, but their eyes never dipped beyond each other’s and their moves were smooth and faultless.  As he watched them twirl around the ballroom, he could even _see_ the moments where Ivan’s sweeping steps accommodated - almost expectedly - for the swish of a voluminous skirt. Something Alfred seemed to account for as well, if only subconsciously.

            And still, they gave each other the exact needed spaces for the dance and no more.  It was an intimacy he’d never seen before in the two of them, brought out for anyone to see.

            No...that wasn’t quite right.  He _had_ seen it before.  In a ballroom empty but for a pair of dancers, waltzing to a tune only they knew, with only the stars as the witness to the love they shared.

            They dance like they've done it for countless centuries – an eternity in every move they make.  They dance like they're ageless; like the world spins in tandem with their twirls.  They dance like they're beautiful and breathtaking; like there was nothing more important in the world than being exactly where they were.

            They danced like there was nothing more precious than each other, and Arthur wondered how long he'd willed himself to miss this.

* * *

           The hall was dark, gilded walls dimmed and quiet. The tables had been cleared a while back; the dance floor polished to back its stainless shine.  The piano had been rolled away, the band’s instruments relegated to the storage room to be claimed upon the morrow.  The remnants of the fabulous ball that had been held only hours before had been cleaned and thrown away, the hall restored to its original grandeur in the wait for the next great event to descend upon it.

            And then, a single set of footsteps echoed conspicuously throughout the grand ballroom.

            And then, another matched them.

            Even the darkness of the hall could not diminish the brilliance of that bright-eyed gleam, when iridescent blue and vibrant violets met across the floor.

            They stepped in tune with each other, footsteps echoing within the others, until they stood mere feet away from each other. They stared each other down, powerful gazes clashing for seconds – minutes even – until, as one, they bowed.

            A hand was offered, and a hand was taken.  And as the sound of the piano’s gentle melody echoed in their ears, they swept into a dance they’d woven for what seemed like an eternity and a half.

            No matter how the music changed, or what the setting may have been, the dance came to them easily.  Whether it was a formal waltz in front of hundreds of people studying them or if it was the two of them swaying in each other’s arms under the stars…it never changed what it was for them.  It never changed the truth they shared with each other with each step they took.

            _I love you_.

            They dipped and twirled and danced around the empty ballroom, and if anyone had been watching, perhaps they would’ve seen how the galaxies swirled above them, how the stars gleamed from tapestries around them, and how moonlight wove together with every step they took.  But there was no one watching, and the two were too lost – drowning in the surety of each other’s love, and the passion that drove them – in their dance, alone in that empty grand ballroom.

            With the stars as their only witness.


End file.
